Natasha Drinks
by strangervision
Summary: Or, five times Clint guesses/suspects that Natasha is drunk, and one time he knows for sure. TW for alcohol abuse, although only because Natasha drinks more than the average person


**5 + 1: Five times Clint guesses that Natasha is drunk, and one time he knows.**

Natasha knows when she's poised on the precipice of being trashed. It's a feeling at the bottom of her gut, like a lazy snake that twirls. Still, sometimes alcohol is so good that before she can stop herself quite in time she's over that edge. Mostly she's careful with it and always teeters, but lately around Clint she's become too comfortable to really bother so much. She isn't quite as strict with herself around him.

When a mission in Amsterdam goes a little rougher than intended, they a few bottles of vodka back to the hotel with them. Patching up takes less of the burning disinfectant than they expect, and they pass half the night drinking the rest of the six bottles they brought back. By the end of the night, Natasha has finished three bottles, and Clint isn't far behind. For her size, Natasha can hold her alcohol surprisingly well, but Clint notices with a tired eye that she gets up a little slower, sits down a little too heavily on the couch across the room. When she lets her neck roll to the side, it looks like a stretch, but also a little lazier than she usually looks. She grins at him, and he moves to sink into the seat beside her.

"You can have the first shower, Romanoff," he says, rubbing a finger over his eyes. She raises her eyebrow at him but doesn't protest much. When she gets up, she's walking a little slower than she usually does, almost cautiously, the way someone might walk through a landmine. Clint thinks of how this is how he feels around her, and also of how sometimes he wants to detonate all the explosives, tear everything down so that they are forced to remake with what they have (and what they have is only each other).

The door closes with a louder-than-usual thud, and he hears the water run and her yelp at the chill. When he hears her moaning through the doors, he hedges a guess that she's drunk out of her mind. He also has a pretty good idea what she's doing behind those doors; adrenaline can do that to people. Still, they're only partners, and he's in no position to comment on whatever it is that she does.

He never gets to confirm his suspicions, because when she comes out only clad in his sweatshirt, she stumbles to the bed and collapses face-first into it, breathing deep and slow. He's a little humbled by this show of trust – or maybe it isn't so much trust as it is her being drunk. He still isn't entirely sure if she's drunk by the time he walks through the bathroom doors, fresh from his shower, and collapses into the bed.

The next morning they wake tangled up in the sheets but not each other, and if she's suffering a hangover, the only indication is the subtle tightening in her jaw and the squint in her eyes at the sunlight. He groans and rolls over, feeling like everything is attacking his senses at once. Maybe she's not hungover after all, because no one can pretend that they're surviving when it feels like a grenade has gone off in your brain.

"Stop being a baby, Barton," she murmurs, half admonishing, half affectionate, and he barely manages a grunt in reply.

* * *

Tony has called it bonding night, but it's really an excuse to find out more dirty secrets about the ones he now has to work with.

"Hey, Riding Hood and her Bird Friend!" he calls from the bar counter, "Come have some of this stuff!"

Clint catches Natasha's eye-roll as they walk over to the bar and seat themselves with the rest of the team.

"Drinking games tonight, everyone," Tony announces, "I Have Never – spy edition!"

Of course, this only means that he and Natasha drink themselves to hell and back because they've done stuff that the others haven't before. Still, Tony looks disappointed when he finds out their mouths are sealed just as tightly when they're drunk as they are sober. He frowns, pouting a little as he turns to Pepper, "Pep, they're not spilling anything. I thought everybody spills when they're drunk – this isn't possible, we got the heaviest liquor, this isn't fair! They're not human," he's rambling, and Pepper casts an apologetic look at Natasha before she gets up and puts her arms around him, guiding him into his bedroom. The rest of the Avengers take this as cue to leave.

Steve pats Clint hard on the back and he nearly falls face first into the table. He turns over to try and catch Natasha smirking – only she isn't. She's just sitting their with a dazed look in her eyes, her expression naked in a way it hasn't been before.

When she catches him looking at her, she leans forward and presses her lips to his, drawing close to tangle a hand in his hair and kiss him deeper, then pulls away and goes off to her room, swaying slightly on her feet.

He still doesn't know if she's drunk because she manages to look incredibly composed as she walks away.

* * *

When he comes back from the latest mission, she's waiting in his room, two empty vodka bottles beside her. She's resting her head against his bed, seated on the floor when he comes in, staring at him with a still, muted gaze.

He's hedging bets with himself that she's drunk again, but he wouldn't know since when she speaks she's perfectly coherent.

"You went on a mission without me, Barton,"

Her voice is mellow and husky when she speaks, as usual, and quiet. He doesn't meet her gaze when he makes a noncommittal sound of agreement.

Clint has a distinct feeling she wants answers from him; wants to know why he left on a mission. He won't tell her, because he can't tell her that lately after every mission with her, his heart clenches tight with affection and longing that he wants to voice. Natasha is a stranger to affection, and has always proclaimed that love is for children, so love is something he cannot show her and cannot allow himself to feel. He'd gone to Director Fury after one such mission and requested to be sent on a solo op, hoping to clear his mind and heart from all stray emotions. It hadn't worked out like he had hoped it would.

She parts her lips like she wants to say something, but instead stands and comes right up to him, carding a hand into his hair and pulling him towards her, kissing him firmly as if to say, _remember who you belong to_, and god, Clint remembers all too well that he's all gone, all hers, because that's the reason why he left without her in the first place. Still her lips are like a brand on his, and he can barely respond before she pulls away and leaves for her own quarters. He doesn't follow. He's beginning to see a pattern; she's only this uninhibited when she's tipsy, and he's not one to take advantage of that.

* * *

Sometimes being a spy has to be one of the most dramatic, ridiculous jobs ever. This is what Natasha thinks as she stands amidst the gunfire, shots ringing in her ears and dust kicking up a storm around her, firing a row of shots that are as accurate as any she has shot in her lifetime.

"Hawkeye!" she yells into her communication device, watching from the corner of her eyes as he shifts on the building opposite from where she's standing and motions for her to duck. Taking a last shot, she rolls behind a parked car and he lets an arrow with a detonating tip fly, taking out the rest of the marks. She isn't completely covered, though, and a stray piece of debris embeds itself in her calf. She winces, but knows enough to know that it hasn't hit a major artery. Still, recovery is going to be a bitch. He rappels down from where he is and runs to her, his face tight with tension and worry. She wants to roll her eyes, but understands his anxiousness and instead motions to her calf, wincing slightly.

Hours later – Natasha doesn't know; she's let herself lose track of time while he patches her up – she's propped against two pillows and watching him move frantically across the room. There's a desperation to his pacing that makes her want to reach out and fold him into her, but she can't move much and the pain is almost numbing. She's suffered through worse, but she wants alcohol. She motions to Clint weakly and he's at her side in an instant, sinking into the bed beside her and cupping her face in a rough, shaking palm.

"Nat?" he asks tenderly, "Do you want something?"

"Don't go soft on me, Barton," she says. Her voice is mellow and soft but still holds an edge of threat in it, "I'm not anywhere near dead. Get me some vodka."

"Nat," he starts again, "No,"

She glares at him enough to make him want to shrink away, but then her head is throbbing, too, and she winces and turns her face into the pillows.

She can hear how worried he is when he says her name again, so she tells him, "Just please, vodka, it'll make it better."

When he comes back with the drinks, she lets a soft, small smile quirk the edges of her lips and murmurs softly, "Thanks, Clint,"

There's a flash of something across his eyes for a moment, and she can't quite read it for the throbbing in her calf and how fast he lets it go, but she doesn't miss it when he says, "As long as you stay with me," and not _you're welcome_.

She's not quite sure what he means, but she downs the alcohol, grateful for the burn down her throat and into her tummy. When she's done with both bottles, she relaxes into the soft sheets and stares dreamily up at him.

"You're the best, Clint," she murmurs, slightly off-tangent, a little dazed, "You're always so good to me."

He brushes a kiss over her forehead, lets a prayer slip out under his breath, and hopes it is a benediction as she slips away from consciousness. He doesn't quite know how much alcohol is too much for her, doesn't know why she drinks so much, but he knows that right now it is taking away her pain, nevermind if she's murmuring in her sleep – she never does that – he'll give it to her if she wants it.

* * *

He only knows that she found out Alexei Shostakov was still alive. He also knows she's gone to look for him, and that he's not the same person she fell in love with, so much has changed, enough that she feels shaken and sick to her stomach. He also knows that when this happens, she goes into hiding and drinks herself silly. The thing is, he still hasn't ever seen Natasha truly drunk, so he's got no idea what to expect, this time when she storms into his safe house in Warsaw and raids his liquor cabinet. He leaves her to it and goes for a run and a shower. By the time he's back beside her, there are two empty bottles on the floor beside her and since the vodka is exhausted, she's taken the Chardonnay and started to drink straight from the bottle.

When she's done with that, they're sitting on the kitchen floor and leaning against the cabinet doors, and she tips her head back until it rests against a handle. She blows a stream of air from her pursed lips and closes her eyes, her entire stiff frame sagging into itself as though her heart is the heaviest it's ever been. Clint wants to crawl over from opposite her and fold her into his arms, wants to hold her and kiss her, drink the pain and anxiety and confusion from her mouth and her body so that she is unshaken and infallible again.

She opens her eyes then at looks at him, and he's wondering if she's trashed because of the glazed look in her eyes, but she gives him a small, sad smile, something he's never seen before, and something withers and dies in his chest so that his stomach clenches fiercely. He gives into his longing and shuffles close, gathering her to his chest. When she starts to cry, her tears are silent, assassins tracking their way across her cheeks just like she's always done, and there is barely any change to her quiet breathing. Then the tears stop and the shaking starts, and she feels like a hurricane in the body of a woman, quaking like this in his arms. The next morning when she wakes up the storm is past and she is rebuilding again.

* * *

**+1**

He's tired of keeping it in. They've been sleeping together for awhile, and he's not sure he can keep having amazing sex with her without shouting his feelings aloud to her the next time they go over the edge. The whole day has been a wreck, because she fixed him his coffee this morning and then they trained together like they always do, and he can't seem to get a moment away from her because she corners him in the showers and god, it's as good as it's ever been, but being around her so much is messing with his feelings. He feels like his insides are in shreds that are going to make him sick, he feels like the words are weights on his tongue, so he bites down and hopes she doesn't notice that his silence today is not watchful, but nearly panicked.

She seems to know something is wrong, though, so she suggests a trip to a small, quaint bar at night and he cannot refuse. Two cocktails and an affogato shot later, he's feeling stupid and brave enough, and his lips feel incapable of holding the weight of all he wants to say to her. Tired of keeping it in and rolling words along the length of his tongue, he tells her he loves her. She stills, but it's the only indication he has that she's heard him, then she starts ordering vodka lime shots, and then cocktails that have gin and rum and vodka in them, and then she keeps going. Somewhere after the fifteenth cocktail she's had, they start to lose count, and she ends up near slumped on the bar top, looking at him with shiny eyes.

He's nursed three drinks while she's been chugging, so he stares back, sorry he ever said anything to make her run.

"We can't, Barton," she says softly, her husky voice sounding a tad too unsteady for his liking, "We can't,"

Most of all, what he hates is the sound of his last name on her tongue, hard and final, like a grave marker for anything they might possibly have shared.

"I know, Nat," he says back, equally soft, "And I'm sorry, I shouldn't have ruined it,"

She sighs and closes her eyes, resting her head on her forearms.

"I love you too, Clint, but we can't,"

His breath catches, and right now he knows she's wasted beyond belief because her eyes are all scrunched up and there are tears leaking from beneath her lids again.

"Tasha," he murmurs, drawing close and curling a hand into her hair as he presses his lips against her forehead, then her cheeks, then the corner of her lips. She shifts into his embrace, his arms coming up around her, and she's crying – in that small, still, _Tasha_ way – into his shirt. She starts to ramble, and he can barely make sense of it but he hears his name and _we can't_ and _love is not for us_ and _I can't have it_ and he clutches her tighter, winding his arms tight around her.

Eventually she stops and gets out of the stool, and every step she takes is cautious – Alice in her first foray into Wonderland. Clint finds himself imagining that this is equal parts drunkenness, and the fact that her world has been shaken again.

When they make it back to Stark's tower and onto Clint's level, she comes out of the lift with him and backs him into his bedroom, cupping his face in her hands and kissing him desperately.

He returns the gesture with equal fervour, but reminds himself that she probably isn't in her right mind and pulls away to look at her. When her face crumples as though she wants to cry again, he marvels at how being so drunk tears down all her defences – even drunk before, she'd never been this far gone – before he pulls her close and guides them both to the bed.

"You need to sleep, okay, Tasha? You're wasted, and right now you really need your rest."

She nods, the lines in her face evening out as she tugs him close and curls into his side, one arm tight around his waist as she pillows her head against his chest. He presses a kiss into her hair and pulls the covers up over them. Once her breathing is deep and even, he lets himself drop off into sleep.

When he wakes the next morning, she's already awake, but for some reason she's curled tighter into herself and him, her brow furrowed as though she's in pain.

"Nat?" he asks, and she shrinks away from his hand.

"Hangover – fuck." is all she will say. He leaves the bed, coming back with water and painkillers, and she washes them down gratefully. After breakfast, she sits with her back turned to him on the couch in his room, and he kneads firmly at the muscles in her neck and shoulder. She sighs and whimpers in contentment, and he drops a kiss on her bare shoulder before tugging at her so that her back is against his chest.

Chin on her shoulder, he's careful to whisper when he says, "I'm sorry for what I said, Tasha,"

She's still, but not tense, and he takes it as a good thing.

"We can go back to what we were before I said all of that, I don't want to ruin it."

"I remember, you know, Clint." She responds, "which means I remember that I told you I love you, too,"

His arms tighten around her waist as he presses his mouth to her shoulder, and he's not sure why he's holding his breath as he waits. He's not quite sure he should be waiting at all.

"I know I said we can't, Clint, but I would love to try,"

His breath comes out in a rush, and she turns to kiss him full on the mouth, her hand coming up to rest against his jaw lightly as his tongue slides against hers. When they pull away, he presses his forehead against hers and closes his eyes.

"So you want to be with me?" he asks, just to make sure he's not misunderstanding anything. He feels her nod against him, pressing her lips to his quickly as a small smile graces her features, "I do, or at least I want whatever semblance of a relationship that assassins can have,"

He grins wide, he can't help it, and she's chuckling and leaning in again, and even if the morning started with her having a hangover, it's fast becoming a damn good one.

* * *

I tried to see how Natasha would be like drunk, and this is what I came up with. Constructive comments encouraged and deeply appreciated (':


End file.
